


Howling, Hunting, Harboring

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't Try This At Home, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is a Monster Fucker, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Shameless Smut, Translation Available, monster kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: Jaskier is more than happy to help Geralt work through the effects of his potions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 111
Kudos: 2262
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Howling, Hunting, Harboring

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Злой кусачий Белый Волк](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457520) by [gronkowski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gronkowski/pseuds/gronkowski)



> My last attempt at this was full of feelings so here have some pure filth.

Jaskier wanted to establish, from the first, that despite what certain grumpy, ungrateful Witchers might have thought about the matter, he was not impatient while Geralt was on hunts. He was remarkably patient. Saint-like, one might even say, with all that he endured in the course of following his muse on the difficult Path of a Witcher. It was only that he liked to see the action, get it all down properly, because Geralt thought that grunting, “Kikamora. Leapt out of the water. Beheaded it.” was all the information that a poet needed to create a masterpiece!

And he dared anyone, truly, anyone, to just sit on a rock or a log all day next to a horse with nothing to do and not feel some sort of struggle with boredom. Honestly, if Geralt would just let Jaskier _watch…_

But Geralt was always saying things like, “It’s dangerous, Jaskier,” and “You’ll get hurt, Jaskier.” As if Jaskier was not himself rather accomplished with a rapier (there was quite a lot of dueling for one’s honor in Oxenfurt) and extremely proficient at scrambling up trees to get away from monsters.

So really, it wasn’t impatience that had him following Geralt after Geralt told him to stay put. It was curiosity, and a need for artistic inspiration and integrity.

…and if Geralt also happened to look absolutely stunning and handsome as fuck while killing monsters, well. Jaskier should be allowed to ogle just a little bit, shouldn’t he? He was Geralt’s… lover? Intimate companion? Something. Gods forbid Geralt let Jaskier put a label on it because ‘boyfriend’ was too juvenile and ‘beloved’ was too flowery and for fuck’s sake Geralt he needed to call him _something_ when talking about him to others—

He was getting off track.

The point was. He liked to watch Geralt fight, and he was allowed to, he _should_ be allowed to, and it was not impatience, thank you very much, it was a variety of other perfectly logical and legitimate reasons.

Which was why he was only a dozen feet away as Geralt finished with the bruxa, his eyes black like pits of slick yawning darkness, his skin white as linen but far more unnatural, black slithering just underneath the skin like the physical embodiment of a curse. Geralt didn’t like to use his potions except for extreme circumstances, but bruxa were one of the most powerful kinds of vampires, and Geralt hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

Jaskier felt a thrill down his spine as Geralt finished, the Witcher’s chest heaving, teeth gritted, eyes fixed on his prey as if making sure the creature was really dead.

Melitele preserve him, Geralt was enough to make Jaskier’s knees weak the rest of the time but when he was like this a dark tug of _want_ lurked in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach and he felt the need to be used, taken, claimed like Geralt was the wolf they all said he was.

Geralt cleaned off his sword and stalked over. “I told you to wait—”

“You can’t possibly have expected me to sit through all of that without watching any of it,” Jaskier scoffed. He could practically see Geralt vibrating, knew what was going on in Geralt’s mind in that moment.

Well, he didn’t—he knew, but he couldn’t understand. He never would truly understand. But Geralt had told him what it was like, once, when they’d been soaking together in a hot spring they’d stumbled upon, Jaskier half asleep with his head on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt had said that being on this particular potion—Cat was its name—was like having fire in him. Boiling his blood. It made his senses even sharper than before, made it so he could see perfectly in pitch darkness, made him so fast he was a blur to the human eye. But his senses were brought to such a fever pitch it hurt. Made even a bit of sunlight blinding, made him flinch at every rustle of leaves, made the smells around him a concoction thick enough to drown him.

Over the years Geralt had grown used to it. It was part of his training. But if you asked Jaskier, learning how to put up with something was not the same as not being in pain from it. And he wanted to help.

Letting Geralt focus on him instead helped.

Geralt unstrapped his sword from his hip and set it down carefully on the grass. Silver, for a bruxa. The steel was back with Roach, just down the hill.

Jaskier took a few steps back, already tensing, ready. His blood felt rather like it was on fire, too, but for an entirely different reason. “If you really think you’re going to get me that easily, Geralt, I have unfortunate news for you.”

It was hard for Geralt to talk like this, to focus on words. The rest of the time it wasn’t that Geralt couldn’t talk, it was simply that he wouldn’t. He didn’t see much point in it, most of the time. Now was different.

Luckily for them both, Jaskier was fluent in Geralt's silences. He could read this one easily now. _Run. Run and I will hunt you._

Jaskier grinned, saluted Geralt in a manner he thought rather endearing (one that Geralt called ‘irritating’ but in that tone that said he didn’t really mean it) and took off.

There was no chance of him getting away. None at all. But Geralt needed to focus his senses, needed a point to pin down, to help him throw away the rest of the world, and chasing Jaskier was the best way to do that.

Or the funnest way. It depended on how you looked at it. Jaskier’s vote was definitely on ‘fun’.

His heart was pounding in his chest and his ears like it was trying to fling itself out of him, his entire body buzzing like a hive of bees was trapped in his limbs. His breath came in fast, short, just inches away from hysterical as he tore through the woods, not even able to hear Geralt behind him. Even at his fastest pace, Geralt knew how to be silent, knew how to track a creature without letting that creature know where he was. It was thrilling, exhilarating, terrifying in that fun kind of way that Geralt said was insane when Jaskier tried to explain it to him.

Jaskier didn’t dare slow down as he rounded a tree. He had no idea where Geralt was coming from and honestly, he had no intention of really trying to get away. But he _had_ to try. Geralt knew when Jaskier was half-assing it and it wasn’t as fun for Geralt that way. It wasn’t what the Witcher needed. And Jaskier liked nearly nothing more than helping to give Geralt what he needed.

And, well. He didn’t like running away from monsters, or bandits, or other creatures that were out to kill him. But he did rather like being chased by Geralt.

His feet pounded into the earth as he ran, hoping he wouldn’t twist an ankle because that would ruin _all_ the fun, taking a small jump over a large tree root—

Geralt caught him around the waist and Jaskier yelped, snagged out of the air like a bird’s prey, yanked back against the Witcher’s solid chest. Geralt was growling, loud and long, his whole body vibrating with it, and Jaskier’s pulse spiked.

He arched his back, tilting his chin up so that he could nip at Geralt’s jaw. “Caught me,” he said pleasantly. “What will you do with me now, oh chompy bitey White Wolf?”

Geralt’s growl managed to intensify, and he reached up, grabbing a handful of Jaskier’s hair and yanking, keeping Jaskier bent back as Geralt’s other hand moved up to Jaskier’s throat, holding him completely in place. Jaskier couldn’t even squirm as Geralt bent his head down to kiss him, and that only made him shiver harder. He was completely at Geralt’s mercy, and fuck if that didn’t thrill him.

Because Geralt would never hurt him. Not really. Not even like this.

Geralt’s skin was cold when he was like this, but so cold it burned, like ice that made your hand stick to it a little if you touched it, like water so frigid it stung. It both chilled and heated Jaskier all at once, everywhere they touched. But Geralt’s mouth was still _warm,_ like it always was, and the contrast had Jaskier mewling shamelessly.

He had never been what one would call a silent lover, but he got even louder than usual where Geralt was concerned, since Geralt liked it so very much. He loved all of Jaskier’s noises, even when Jaskier was gagged or he had clapped a hand over the bard’s mouth, and Jaskier liked nothing so much as the look of desperate hunger that seized Geralt’s face when Jaskier did something his Witcher liked.

 _His_ Witcher. His, his, his. Geralt didn’t run through the woods like this with anyone else. He never found a whore to slake his fire when he was burning like this. Only Jaskier was trusted this way. And Jaskier would cut anyone else who tried to butt in.

Because, oh, Geralt couldn’t see it, and maybe most people were idiots who also couldn’t see it, but—Geralt was enough to have Jaskier hard and leaking when he was like this. His eyes were black, devouring, deep and hungry enough to get lost in. His mouth even more so. He smelled like something Jaskier couldn’t identify but that made his mind scream _danger_ in a way that was heady and hot. His skin was white and black, monochrome, like he was leeching the color from the world, veins prominent and pulsing.

He was the sort of thing a man dreamed about only at two in the morning, hand under the bedsheets, silent as the grave even when alone in case the very walls heard what you were fantasizing about, what was making you bite your tongue and come into your smallclothes. Jaskier loved Geralt in all ways, every way, and he loved the danger of him like this.

Geralt slid his tongue between Jaskier’s eagerly parted lips, claiming in a way he normally wasn’t, all of the Witcher’s careful control gone in these moments. His hand squeezed lightly around Jaskier’s throat and Jaskier choked, his cock jerking against the too-tight confines of his clothes, his body burning at that one simple movement. Geralt’s other hand maintained a firm grip on Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier grabbed onto Geralt’s wrists, trying to keep himself upright as his body went deliciously limp in Geralt’s hold.

Just as abruptly as the kiss had started, it ended. Geralt released him with a final hard squeeze to Jaskier’s throat and left Jaskier gasping and panting, his fingers clumsy as he fumbled with his clothes.

He knew, from experience, that if he didn’t get his clothes out of the way fast enough, Geralt would rip them off. And as sexy as that was, Jaskier happened to like his clothes, thank you, and he only had so much money to replace them all the time.

Geralt was undoing his own clothes with a swift and impatient economy. The first few times he hadn’t bothered, but Jaskier insisted that if Geralt was going to get him naked, it was only fair that Jaskier get some eye candy as well. Inch after inch of skin being revealed made Jaskier’s mouth water, and he nearly tripped and fell on his arse in his attempt to watch Geralt and get out of his pants at the same moment.

Didn’t matter, really. He was on his arse in a second anyway as Geralt pounced.

Jaskier landed on his back, and would’ve smacked his head hard, except that Geralt’s hand slid in between, Geralt’s knuckles taking the damage instead as he cradled the back of Jaskier’s skull, his fingers entwined in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier immediately tugged Geralt into a kiss, spreading his legs, feeling that growl morph into a purr.

Geralt purred like a gigantic house cat when he was like this. It was adorable.

Jaskier slid his hands along Geralt’s shoulders, finding purchase, digging into the shifting, rippling muscles. Geralt was normally like a block of stone, but with the potion, his muscles moved under his skin constantly, like eels were trapped underneath. The black veins slithered up and down around like webs woven by skittering invisible spiders, and sometimes it was enough to make Jaskier worry that something _would_ burst out of Geralt, that there was another creature lurking inside this one.

But it was only the potion, and the only thing to worry about for his Witcher was that it _hurt._ It hurt Geralt to be like this. And Jaskier would never let that stand.

Geralt snarled as Jaskier moved in hand in between them and found Geralt’s cock. Jaskier was pleased to announce, should anyone care to hear the announcement, that the potion’s transformations affected _every_ part of his Witcher. Geralt’s cock was as monochrome as the rest of him, thick black veins shooting through it, black precome like poison dripping out of the slit and sliding down the shaft. Jaskier was still quite determined to someday get that in his mouth, but so far Geralt hadn’t had the patience for it.

Someday. Jaskier could be quite persuasive.

For now he simply stroked Geralt, worked the foreskin down to drive Geralt just that little bit crazier, get him focused on nothing else but Jaskier. Geralt bit down hard onto Jaskier’s neck and Jaskier all but howled, his body shaking, needy, desperate.

It was a good thing Geralt had taken to telling him when he was going to be using the potion, because Geralt had next to no control like this, and so Jaskier could take care of prepping himself beforehand. Geralt yanked Jaskier’s hand away, pinning them both down above Jaskier’s head, both wrists caught in one of Geralt’s bruising-tight grips, and then shoved himself inside in one hot, fierce thrust.

Jaskier wasn’t even sure what to call the noise he made, fire exploding behind his eyes like a powder keg. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s throat, growling in satisfaction, not even pausing to give Jaskier a breath as he fucked into him rough and fast.

He really couldn’t have kept his noises in if he tried. Geralt was thicker at the base of his cock when he was like this—released more spend when he came, as well—and Jaskier didn’t think it was so much any intention on the part of the Witcher trainers as it was another aspect of how much _more_ Geralt was when he took this potion, how everything about him was pushed to its absolute monstrous limit.

It felt like he was being fucked up to his throat, like he was in danger of being ripped open, and somehow the danger of it—illogical as that danger was, for Geralt would never allow such a thing to happen—only made it all that much more intoxicating. Jaskier felt drunk, no, better than drunk, writhing as Geralt scraped against every spot of pleasure he had and left him raw and delirious.

As suddenly as he’d entered him, Geralt pulled out, and Jaskier whined in protest. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Geralt’s eyes were so black they seemed to swallow the color of the world around them, making it all dulled and gray. Or perhaps that was just what being really well fucked out did to your eyesight, who was Jaskier to tell? His breath caught as Geralt bared his teeth, then seized Jaskier’s hips and flipped him over.

Oh. Geralt almost always ended up taking him this way during these times. Jaskier didn’t mind. It got Geralt even deeper inside of him, even—

Geralt slid home again, scattering bite marks all over Jaskier’s shoulders, and Jaskier moaned brokenly as he was pressed against the soft earth. He felt like if he spit, his saliva would come out black. Like Geralt was fusing the two of them together. They were nothing more than two rutting animals like this, birds scattering in the wake of Jaskier’s helpless cries and Geralt’s possessive growling, and it was all Jaskier could do to keep up.

But was he ever determined to keep up. Geralt might not see it this way—he tended to see this as brutish, as _taking_ Jaskier, using him, and maybe he was, but—Jaskier saw this as another way to take care of Geralt. And Jaskier was the best at that.

He shoved his hips back, arched his head to bare his throat to Geralt’s teeth, praised as much as he could (words were rather difficult at the moment). And Geralt fucked him but good, his burning cold body pressed right up against Jaskier’s back, the danger smell all around them like a cloud, and _oh,_ Jaskier felt so good he might crawl out of his own fucking _skin_ from all of this.

Geralt shoved himself inside, the base of his cock starting to swell (and hadn’t _that_ been a fun surprise the first time it had happened), striking right up against the spot that had Jaskier always seeing stars, and Jaskier’s voice strangled itself as he came.

The smell and feel of him doing so only made Geralt wilder, made him fuck into Jaskier like they were seconds away from the end of the world. Jaskier was completely limp, overwhelmed, his nerves singing with that hot, sharp edge of pleasure-pain as Geralt painted him inside with burning liquid, stretched him, owned him.

Jaskier had never wanted to belong to anyone. He’d been proud of his ability to love everyone, love freely, move from person to person. He had never understood jealousy or attaching oneself to a single other soul.

Then he’d met Geralt, and he completely understood. Falling a little bit in love with everyone was fine, but he’d fallen completely for this one, and he was happy to belong and be attached for the rest of his life.

Geralt purred unceasingly, affectionate in the wake of his orgasm, nuzzling and licking at Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier let himself go boneless, knowing Geralt would hold him, and let Geralt drown himself in the scent of them.

He had no idea how much time passed. Long enough for Geralt to soften and slide out of him. Long enough for the spend on Jaskier’s stomach from his own orgasm to start to dry.

Jaskier turned, just enough to get a good look. Geralt was still purring. His eyes were closed but Jaskier could see that his skin wasn’t shifting as much, wasn’t so much its own creature anymore. The black veins were thinner, and moved less. His face had a little more color to it.

Pride pricked at him, just a little. He had done that. He’d helped Geralt through it, given Geralt pleasure so his Witcher didn’t have to endure the potion in pain, riding it out with a clenched jaw. Him, and no one else.

Geralt always said that there was no one else, not only because he wouldn’t _want_ anyone else, but because nobody else would be fool enough to let him. Jaskier had to disagree. He knew of at least a handful of people who would be happy to be fucked by a Witcher like this, would consider it a thrill. The others were fools, but then, whether others wanted it or not didn’t matter. Jaskier was keeping this to himself.

He stroked through Geralt’s hair and pressed himself up against Geralt, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist as Geralt continued to nuzzle and nip shamelessly at Jaskier’s skin. Geralt no longer burned him with cold. Warmth was starting to return, and soon Geralt would be running hot as usual.

“We’ll both need baths,” he commented.

Geralt tightened his grip as if to say _we’re not going anywhere._

Jaskier chuckled. “All right. Later then. But we really do, Geralt. And you’re putting salve on these bruises, I look like I rolled down three flights of stairs.”

Geralt, probably pleased with the idea of Jaskier all marked up by him, just purred louder.

Silly White Wolf. Monstrous White Wolf. _Gorgeous_ White Wolf.

His.

**Author's Note:**

> The line “oh chompy bitey White Wolf” was shamelessly stolen from LokelaniRose, who’s written my two favorite Witcher fics: Woodash and iron and leather, and A hard curl of satisfaction. I highly recommend both.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Howling, Hunting, Harboring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794934) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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